It's been a long hard winter in my chest. Lurgy and scurvy riddle my breathing sponges. A hack here and a hawk there, it's Dickens all over again, Great Expectorations. It's enough to give you the Pip. And as I crawled out of terminal hypochondria and inactivity, I arrived slap bang into the season of giving and getting. Yes, the ho-ho-hoes were in full swing with their attendant attractions of wine, sweets, and song. Normally, I'd include women but there's a strike at the Viagra factory in Cork.

We call candy sweets here and, by God, my house was awash with them. My wife is a good cook, so laden tables and never empty stomachs led me inexorably through Yule and into a brave new millennium. Well last night, the final Irish Rose chocolate made its fattening way down my gullet and the firm resolution born on the Eve of the New Year stiffened itself, wagged a reproving finger, and said sharply "Get out dere and run, you fat git!"

Well, I had tried before this year, New Year's day saw me fatly on top of the Sugarloaf, but the ague clutched me to its bosom again and running was the last thing on my mind. So, now a hesitant non-sylphlike creature stepped onto the scales for the first time in a month and stared down disbelievingly past a well fed mound that used to put Schwarzenegger's in the shade. 17 stone! No Lord, tell me it's not true! G'wan, g'wan tell me, I'll believe in you again and start going to Mass and Confession. An

answering silence from the heavens ..

Checking the diary told me that there was an orienteering event on at Trooperstown Wood near Glendalough down the road in Co. Wicklow the following morning. Yes, I had to do that. I had been doing some O events earlier in the winter and had to hit the woods again. After sleeping the untroubled sleep of a resolved new beginner, I woke up to a perfect day. I hunted around for my gear and hit the 12 mile road to Glendalough from Bray.

Now in case there's a few of you out there who don't know what orienteering

is. "Wha's da? Orienteering? Is it climbin' in the Orient? Has it sometin' to do with Anna and the King of Siam? Do you have to sing durin' it? Ah, g'wan tell us?" It involves charging around a course in the woods, mountains, and suchlike. You're given a blank map and told "Go !" With the map in hand you run a few metres to another map which has your course marked on it, copy it down, and head off to cover the route. The fastest one back is the winner.

Sounds simple? Well it isn't. Here's my story today. Ignoring the A, B, and C courses - too tough, I started in the D class having dismissed the others as beneath my talent. The course was 4.8 kilometres with 250 metres of climb and descent. I had to go to ten control points marked on the course map. At each control, a miniature red and white truncated windsock hung on a stick with a label on it. On the label, there was marked in bold lettering the control code. My first one was 142.

Turning the map in the right direction, I worked out where I had to head to get there. Starting off briskly, I headed along the muddy forest track, all the while being passed by other runners who were on other courses. In Orienteering, you always have a minute gap between start times for runners doing the same course. The track took a dip. Dredging my body memory for any former fleetness, I put a spurt in and caught two before slowing to a wheezing walk as the incline steepened.

A few steps up the incline and there it was, my first. Number 142 come in, your time is up! I jogged over to it and punched my control card. Each control has a different shaped punch with vicious teeth which you stamp through a card given to you at the start, so the almighty ones who organise can tell that you haven't cheated. Checking to see that the card was nicely perforated, I headed off to the next one. Number 150, where were you?

Now I'm not a bad navigator, I can generally find my way around easily enough. However, in my vanity, I had decided not to wear my glasses. A bright day, ah sure, I'll be able to see easily enough. My eyesight used to be great. I could see a fly on a sailor's trousers on the horizon. I mean the insect type, of course! Now while my long vision is still as good as ever, reading is now a problem. Having conceded that my arms weren't long enough, I bought my first pair of glasses some time ago for night time reading.

But orienteering is a different kettle of fish. It requires a combination of pinpoint accuracy in map reading and athletic ability. Reading a map while jumping a stream isn't so bad when you're fit and have good eyesight, when you're fat, well... I'm now fat and previous experience of the glasses hopping all over my face makes me try to do without them whenever I can. I don't need them for running, just the map reading. So the bright day and vanity won out.

Going to the second control, I paid for the vanity. The going was slightly uphill and misjudging the ground covered - I thought I'd gone further - I glanced at the fuzzy map and took the wrong track. I continued upwards for five minutes until I realised that the ground and the map were now wildly different. The penny dropped. Cursing - I'm still good at that - I retraced my steps and corrected myself.

I took the next - correct - turning and made it to Two easily enough. Three, Four, Five, and Six followed without too much difficulty. However from Six to Seven, there was a long uphill haul along a wide forest road that in my prime, I'd have romped up. I started to romp, but I'm not in my prime. My back screamed. Now I can still run downhill flat out, but uphill running screws my back. I just can't hack it anymore. A bike accident, a long story in which I learned to fly involuntarily. A story that I'll spare you.

The screams from my back attracted the attentions of the local back demons who attacked it in sympathy. "We'll slow this guy up" they said as a particularly venomous one slid a hot thick needle between my discs. Waggling it up, down, and around, he called for all his pals to come and join in. They decided to have a limbo dancing session under the needle, but weren't very good. Their heads kept hitting it as they went under it, and each time they hit, my back went into spasm. I visualised one of them , Olivier-like, saying "Is it safe? Is it safe?" as I staggered up the never ending hill.

Eventually, I hobbled to the top and cutting across to Seven, I punched and the remaining controls were all downhill. The back demons overheard me congratulating myself and left in disgust. I was free. I gradually picked up speed and blazed down hopping over logs, holes, and assorted wild life. Eight, Nine and Ten sped up to me and I punched through to the finish back beside the Avonmore river where I started from. The usual chat followed "Ah, you're back, Douglas. Trying to kill the weight?" Yes, and it's working. A run, no drink, and no sweets, guess what? 16st 7lbs tonight.